


that shit gorgeous

by soulofme



Category: TharnType the Series (TV)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use, suggestive content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24580948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofme/pseuds/soulofme
Summary: He has liquid heat running through his veins.
Relationships: Tharn Thara Kirigun/Type Thiwat Phawattakun
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	that shit gorgeous

**Author's Note:**

> title from roses by saint jhn

“What the fuck are you looking at?”

Like this, Type’s words roll off his tongue with hardly any effort. He’s loose-limbed and red-cheeked, sprawled on the floor with his limbs spread every which way. It’s the first time they’ve been left alone tonight, and somehow Type had procured a tiny plastic baggy that felt far too familiar.

He’d rolled the joint on Champ’s kitchen counter with the kind of precision Tharn’s sure doctors have when performing surgery. He'd been careful carrying it over to Tharn, long fingers cupped around it like it’s something precious, like he’ll die if one of them fucks up and knocks it to the ground.

Type was the one who hits it first, like he always does. He sits cross-legged on the floor by Tharn’s feet, eyebrows furrowed, pinched together like he’s got something to be pissed about. The higher he gets, the more he slouches. Tharn keeps track of how far gone he is by how close to the floor Type gets.

Tharn doesn’t give a damn about weed. It makes him kind of paranoid, more than he’d like to admit. But Type likes it. And Tharn’s forced to give a shit about whatever _Type_ does.

“Champ’s cousin from America got this for him,” Type’s saying then, wiggling his toes against the carpet, matted down with dirt and who knows what else. “Said it was good.”

“Is it?” Tharn asks, because he’s not the expert here.

Type hums, eyes slipping closed. He holds his hand up, offering Tharn the joint. Tharn takes it between hesitant fingers, a controlled warmth spreading along his skin. He feels nauseous then, but he still raises it to his lips and inhales deeply. When he coughs, a grey cloud of smoke beings to dissipate into the air in front of him. He imagines that same smoke inching down his airway, seeping into his lung tissue.

“It’s _something_ ,” Type says, with all the bite he’s known for.

Tharn returns the joint, which Type accepts with eyes still closed. He smokes until it’s down to a dull orange nub. He grinds it out onto the leg of Champ’s beat-up coffee table, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

“C’mere.”

His voice is low and raspy, gritty in all the kinds of ways that shouldn’t affect Tharn as much as they do. He feels himself wavering, his mouth horribly dry, tasting unfortunately like something died in it. Another thing he can’t stand about weed.

But he’s moving, of course. He pastes himself to Type’s side, hand brushing against something sticky on the side of the table he doesn’t dare to identify. Type smells like weed, obviously, but beneath it all there’s the fresh, sharp scent of his body spray. The hollow of his throat looks inviting, even more so when Type swallows, hard enough that Tharn swears he can hear it.

It’s one of those nights, the ones where Tharn’s existing but not living. He’s going along with the flow, taking things as they come, unbothered by everyone and everything. It happens sometimes, when he can’t imagine giving a shit about anything at that particular moment. Now, it’s right off the heels of another gig. Not as good as P’Jeed’s bar, but _something_.

The problem isn’t that Tharn’s grown up from a fresh-faced college student, but sometimes he thinks it might be. People like young and pretty, shiny and new. Once, Tharn had been that. But now people know his face, know his _music_ , and suddenly the demands come rushing in. Music isn’t about what he wants. It’s about what people want him to make.

It’s a shitty way to live. He’d told Tum the same thing, but he’d been brushed off. Out of all of them, Tharn’s the only one wondering if maybe they’ve overstayed their welcome in the music industry. But it’s not like Tharn has anything else he’s passionate about. Even if they won’t say it, he knows his parents are expecting him to get a “real” job.

At this rate, though, he’ll be senile and still trying to bang his drums.

“Stop it.”

Type’s voice shatters his thoughts, more or less because of how he drapes himself over Tharn’s still body. Tharn lets his hand fall on his back, rest on the dip of his spine, search for the warmth of golden skin hidden beneath his flimsy shirt.

He’s sweaty and a little disgusting, but Tharn’s in love. He has liquid heat running through his veins. The kind that makes everything feel more intense, the colors brighter and the sounds louder. Type’s body is like a line of fire against his own, and Tharn just wants to get burned.

“Stop what?”

“Thinking.”

Tharn suppresses a sigh. “I’m not—”

“Stop. Shut up.”

Tharn presses his lips together. His fingers inch lower, beneath the waistband of Type’s painted-on jeans. They make him look good, but about every damn thing on the planet does that for Type. He’s got a perfect body, a perfect face, a perfect _everything_.

“Okay,” he says, agreeable because it usually means a good deal for him.

He stops the movement of his hand, waiting, and it’s then that Type makes a short, abortive movement with his hips. He grinds once, harsh against the meat of Tharn’s thigh. Tharn’s heart leaps into his throat. He’s hyper-aware of his hand practically shoved down the back of Type’s pants.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” Type warns against his ear.

“Who said I’m not gonna finish?”

“Cocky fucker.” Type’s got this breathy quality to his voice now.

There’s the sound of his zip being undone, and then Type’s hips are wiggling again. Tharn works his jeans down to his thighs, hooking them around the back of Type’s knees. He reminds himself that they’re in the middle of the living room— _Champ's_ living room—where anyone can walk back in and catch them, but the voice in his head is so tiny and feeble Tharn figures he can ignore it.

Now, Tharn’s hand isn’t trapped beneath stiff denim. His fingers tease along the hem of Type’s briefs, hitching the fabric up into his hand, curling until it goes taut over Type’s ass. He breathes heavily against Tharn’s neck, warm and jagged, one hand frantically skirting down Tharn’s stomach.

“Are we gonna fuck?”

“Like this?” Tharn asks, their bodies twisted together in a way that makes it easy to forget what limb belongs to _who_. “Really?”

“What do you think?”

Type kicks his jeans fully off, leaving them in a crumpled pile on the floor. It makes it easy for him to settle astride Tharn’s lap, legs spread wide to accommodate the width of his thighs. The muscles jump beneath his skin when Tharn rubs his hands down the top of his thighs, squeezing until the flesh begins to spill out between his fingers. Type gives him a sly grin, nasty enough that Tharn’s stomach swoops.

“Then, let’s fuck.”


End file.
